What's in a Name?
by Brother Brain
Summary: He's the scourge of the Federation, a draconian beast drenched in blood, whose very name causes children to quake with fear. Hold on a minute, what is his name anyways?


In a meeting room in a Federation base, a group of humans in business attire sat around a table. One stood at the head, adjusting his glasses as he looked over the others.

"Every year," he said, "The Galactic Federation military gives it's intelligence department billions of credits as our budget. I would like to keep it that way, which is why we must address a glaring issues."

He pressed a button on a small remote, causing the display screen behind him to activate. It showed a picture of a large, purple, draconian creature tearing a transport in half. "We need to give that thing a name."

One of the other humans raised a hand. "Why do we need to name it now?" she asked, "Why not just call it whatever we've been calling it."

The man at the head of the table let out a long sigh and thought wistfully of the flask he had in his pocket. "Because," he explained patiently, "I'm not about to send off another tactical briefing to our superiors warning them about "Huge Fuck-ass Dragon, Holy Shit, We're All Going to Die, Dear God"."

Some of the people at the table stifled laughter. He stifled the urge to hunt down the intern who'd labeled it in the first place and fire them out of a cannon. "So," he said, trying to get back on track, "Suggestions?"

"Doomripper!"

"Reaper!"

"You can't do that, we have ten different things named Reaper."

"Fine, Deathwing then."

"Skyhate!"

"The Swooping Evil!"

"Murderbird!"

"Everybody shut up!" one woman yelled. "We need to give it an actual name, not some 12 year old's edgelord username like Xx_Shadowblade-Void_xX."

The man at the head of the table stared at her. "I don't know whether to fire you for saying something so ear-gratingly obnoxious or give you a raise for pronouncing that whole thing. But regardless, you're right. We need to give it something more… normal. We should give it a person name."

"Why not an alien name?" someone else piped up.

The man at the head of the table signed again. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small book, no larger than his palm. "This," he said as he placed it on the table, "Is a dictionary of everything we've managed to translate from space pirate script. Can you guess what's in it?"

The other people looked between each other, not willing to be the one to speak. "Everything in it," the man said, "Is from graffiti left behind in our raided vessels and bases. As such it is literally nothing but insults. There are five different versions of "fuck" alone."

"Five?" someone asked, "Why five?"

"Well the pirates are a conglomerate of races," the man explained in a long-suffering tone, "So they use a mixture of languages. And apparently, the curses were so important, they kept variations of them from every language."

One of the other people grabbed the book and flipped through it. "This is definitely…" he trailed off as he read the various translations. "Yeah." he concluded weakly.

Someone else grabbed the book from him and looked at it. "This is kind of impressive," he said as he flipped through. "This word manages to insult someone's parentage in three different ways."

"Okay!" the first person said, "No alien names, we get it! So what people names are good?"

"How about Phillip?" one woman said.

The man at the head of the table looked at her, then at the picture of the monster on the screen. It had been changing through various photos taken by people on the ground and was currently displaying one of it tearing a man in half. "You want to name that thing," he said in an incredulous tone, pointing at the image, "Phillip?"

She shrugged. "He looks like a Phillip."

The man at the head of the table looked back and forth between her and the image. "Looks like a Phillip." He whispered hoarsely. "How, in the name of anything you care to choose, does that look like a Phillip?"

"Rebecca!" someone else called.

His confused and aghast gaze dragged across the room to fixate on the new speaker. His eyes bulging like a stressed and confused fish, he gestured wordlessly in a vague series of motions meant to entice an explanation.

"Well we don't know it's a he," they said, "Maybe it's a she."

Before the man at the head of the table could continue his slide into madness, another person spoke up. "Ridley."

His head snapped around, causing the woman who'd spoken to freeze. In his gaze, she could see the final frayed string of his sanity about to snap. But she could also see a glimmer of hope. "Explain." He whispered shakily.

"W-well," she said, uncertain of how to proceed as she looked into his maniac eyes, unable to tear herself away, "R-Ridley is an old human name m-meaning "barren field." Isn't that f-fitting for the leader of a slash and burn militia force?"

The man at the head of the table stared at her for a bit longer, then broke gazes to look at a small extranet panel in his hand. He spent several minutes looking at something on it, preemptively shushing anyone who tried to talk. Eventually he looked up at the woman again. "A cursory search of the extra net shows me that you are correct."

"Well," she said, happy to have been justified, "Then we-"

"However," he cut her off, "A search of your personnel file shows me that you have an in-law with the surname of Ridley."

She shifted in her seat, unable to offer a defense desides a feeble shrug.

He stared at her a few seconds more, then sighed and sank into his seat. "Whatever," he said, pulling his flask out, "It's as good a name as any. It's called Ridley now, you all can go." He drank deeply from his flask as the other filed out. Someday he'd have the sense to get drunk before these meetings. Someday.

* * *

 **Ridley's Reign of Terror Continues!** The headline announced. Below it, the article explained how "The horrific beast continues its awful rampage, bringing fear and devastation wherever it goes." Most people who read the article were filled with concern, looking up more information or making plans should the beast come calling to their colony. But one Federation intel worker felt nothing but smug glee as she linked the article to an email and sent it to her in-law. Scrolling back through her messages revealed fifty-seven nearly identical emails, all containing a link to an article about the menace of Ridley. She thought back to her boss and how quickly he'd gone for his flask when he'd realized her motives, then thought about how satisfying this was. "Worth it." she concluded.

* * *

 **AN: Hey look, it's my first humor piece. Hopefully those waiting for a longer story aren't disappointed.**

 **Fun fact, that's an actual translation of Ridley. If you're being more generous, you could also translate it as "open glade" or "empty land." Probably wasn't the original intention behind his name, but it's a fun tidbit anyways.**


End file.
